


(In a mad world) Only the mad are sane

by calavarna



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Ficlet, Gen, Introspection
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-10-30
Updated: 2010-10-30
Packaged: 2017-10-12 23:21:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 406
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/130261
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/calavarna/pseuds/calavarna
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>"His cane served little purpose now except, perhaps, to spur his therapist on to greater heights of inquisition and rhetoric."</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	(In a mad world) Only the mad are sane

His cane served little purpose now except, perhaps, to spur his therapist on to greater heights of inquisition and rhetoric. He was starting to think that he would only be declared fit, sound of mind and body, when he realised that the bullet was imaginary, the gaping wound in his shoulder nothing more than a paper-cut and the entire nation of Afghanistan nothing more than a mental construct of his tortured past.

He had only briefly touched on that sort of rubbish while at Bart's - a semester of mental health lectures, a clinical in a psychiatric ward, his laboratory partner cowering behind a cluster of plant pots before their third year exams - but nowhere in any of the textbooks had it mentioned psychosomatic symptoms being a sign of something far more traumatic that being shot in the middle of a war zone. If anything, his sessions were more rigorous now than before. One (unaided, painless) step forward, and he was expected to take another, and another, until all his underlying symptoms were recognised and resolved.

He had an underlying symptom. It was an allergy to psychobabble and bullshit.

He supposed he should return the cane, thank the supposed wisdom of his therapist who insisted he rent one instead of purchasing his own, carry on with his able-bodied life. But sometimes, like most of the objects inside their cluttered rooms, a layer of dust would gather atop the cane, colouring it nearly black under the cloud of dirt and grime and ash from yet another incomprehensible experiment conducted in the kitchen under the cover of night. It would go unnoticed for weeks, just another oddity amid the hundreds of curios covering every available surface, and then, out of the blue, Sherlock would reach for the cane, twisting it around his long, nimble fingers like the master baton twirler he probably was, dissecting his thoughts through the turns and flairs of metal and plastic.

He would talk then, words drawn from his heart instead of passing through the finely tuned processor that was his head, as if the swirling, spinning motion hypnotised him into revealing more of his being, his soul. Those days, no therapist in the world could find fault in either of them.

John could return the cane, _should _return it if only so some other poor soul can carry on the proud tradition of ironical metaphorical crutches but he won't. It's too much to lose.__


End file.
